


Seventeen Seconds in Portland

by blueswan



Category: Kane (Band), Leverage RPF, Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:18:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueswan/pseuds/blueswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were there again, on stage together, sharing some Jack and hugs. It was just like before, except it wasn't, it couldn't be</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen Seconds in Portland

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in June 2009.

They were there again, on stage together, sharing some Jack and hugs. It was just like before, except it wasn't, it couldn't be. There was too much water gone under that bridge, too much time passed and there'd been the separation. Somehow, those few seconds before they'd got things going, those seconds had felt like a year.

Still, it'd been fun. It'd been great actually. He'd missed it all and tonight he'd immersed himself in the energy of Kane, the high of mixing his music with Steve's again. The excitement of the audience had been an extra shot of energy. He'd danced and sang and drank and fuck it'd been fun.

There'd been the fans after the show. He loved that, much as he complained, he loved the adoration thing. His ego was not small, he acknowledged this. He'd always laughed and agreed with Steve when he said as much.

It went well, they still meshed on stage, the music worked – it was better with Steve than without. His fucking life worked better with Steve in it. Even so, at the end there, he'd set up to meet the fans and turned to look for him and he wasn't there. That's not how he'd wanted tonight to be. He'd wanted the old shit; he'd wanted him and Steve and the guitars and working out a new song over room-service and weed. He'd wanted the TV on, porn to point and laugh at while Steve worked out a bridge between chorus and verse.

He missed him. He'd been missing him since the deal had been done, before that even. When the suits dangled their contract and made their offer to him and not the band. The separation hadn't been difficult or fraught with anger. Chris signed away his soul, and Steve had wished him well and gone on his way.

The call to Steve had been simple, "Come on up, we'll do a set. It'll be like old times." Except old times had been different; they'd never get back to those days.

He drank some more, fucked around with the song he'd been working on and drank even more. Daddy had always said a man who drank straight from the bottle was making a statement and those around him needed to listen. Chris had been telling Steve shit for years and Steve had been listening and then he was g-o-n-e gone.

Today he'd returned, but he hadn't been listening. Not enough to hear Chris anyway.

Chris needed Steve to hear him. There was shit needed to be said. He could man up or he could drink some more. He reached for the bottle and fumbled. The bottle rolled under the bed, pretty much made his decision for him then.

No sense in giving him the chance to put Chris off. He didn't pick up the phone.

He'd booked the room, Steve was just down the hall. Chris could walk that far, he wasn't that wasted.

He'd tell Steve shit, make him listen, make things like they used to be. He wanted that, Steve had to want that too. He lined up some words, danced them around, juggled them into order. Then he laid his fist on the door, pulled back to hammer it some, but he was drunk and this was maybe not the best idea he'd ever had after all.

He knocked a quiet tattoo on the door panel, leaned on the frame and knocked again. He'd dazzle Steve with words, subdue him with his brilliance and make him be his good old boy again. Southern boys had to stick together – even if one was just a South Cali boy. He had to want that as much as Chris did. He knew Steve.

The clunk of a deadbolt and the door opened. Steve wearing unbuttoned jeans. A girl's voice, loud and giggle-filled, asking who it is at the door. He pushed past Steve into the washroom, handed him the dress, the panties and bra he picked off the floor, the purse from the vanity.

There were still clean towels. He stripped down while Steve watched, turned the water on. He was toweling off, heard the lie about the unexpected return of Steve's room-mate as the protesting girl was escorted out the door. Twenty minutes passed before he returned to the room. Chris was dressed. He'd sobered up a bit in the last hour.

He'd let it get the way it was; he had to be the one to fix it. "Fucking good, being up there with you tonight, man."

Steve tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"It was getting old being up there alone. Fucking missed you."

Steve nodded and cocked an eyebrow. Chris met his eyes. "Oh man, gimme a break."

"I'm sorry?" He didn't bother looking at Steve for a response. "No, I am sorry. I fucked up the band, I fucked you over. I fucked us up."

He had to do it. Had to push into Steve's space, get his arms around him, and whisper in his ear, "You put her in a cab, right? She's not in the hotel, waiting for you to get the drunk roomie sobered up. Tell me, huh?"

Steve's arms around him, pulling him close and his knee lifting between Chris's thighs, was his answer. Chris took them down, landed them square in the middle of the bed, and Steve's arms never let go.

It's the best seventeen seconds Portland has shown Chris yet


End file.
